Battle Cry - Leon Uris [116]
“Where are we?” I asked.
“New Caledonia. We’re pulling into Noumea harbor now. Spooky, isn’t it?”
“Like a devil’s island, I’d say.”
We passed through the mined and netted channels into the harbor. Then I saw it! The United States Navy. All about, battlewagons, carriers, cruisers, destroyers, lay at anchor. So this was where they were hiding.
The bosun’s pipe was heard: “Now hear this, now hear this. All Marines return to your quarters. You will square away and stand by for a practice landing with transport packs.”
The practice was a mess. We were assigned to the high midship net. It seemed like five hundred feet to the water. Two legs were broken in the transfer to the landing boats below. The heavy load of full upper and lower packs, bedrolls, ammunition, and radios just about sunk us through the boat bottom. We drifted about for a hour and returned to the side of the ship.
Lighttower froze on the net, exhausted, and had to be dragged aboard by Huxley, who was standing on the bridge growling at the mad mess below.
It was brutal and stupid to introduce a green bunch to the tricky nets in such a manner. It was lucky there weren’t a half dozen fatalities. After it was over they were all glad, though, because lighter packs and lower nets would seem like child’s play after this.
The shower was jammed after the practice so I doused my face in my canteen water and went topside. Some gear was lowered into a barge, then the Jacob’s ladder dropped. Two men, a captain and an enlisted man, were climbing aboard. Lieutenant LeForce and Sergeant Paris from Intelligence were waiting to meet them on deck.
“Captain Davis, Division Intelligence,” he introduced himself, “and my assistant, Sergeant Seymour.”
“LeForce, and this is my chief, Sergeant Paris. When the gear gets aboard arrange quarters for the Sergeant. Please come with me, Captain Davis. Major Huxley is waiting for you.”
Paris saw me and came over. “This is Seymour, Intelligence. He’s just off Guadalcanal.”
“Glad to have you aboard,” I said, studying the sallow-faced, rail thin Marine.
“Can’t say as I’m glad to be aboard.” He smiled a sardonic smile.
“Mac is a communications chief. Do you have an extra sack in your section for Seymour? I’m loaded.”
“I think so,” I said.
First Sergeant Pucchi approached the Jacob’s ladder, muttering to himself.
“Hey, Pucchi, were the hell are you going?”
“Ashore.”
“But we’re supposed to pull out right after the other ships finish practice.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m going to sit the goddam war out on this goddam island.”
“How come?”
“The sonofabitches told me that first sergeants aren’t expendable. I got to stay here and keep records.”
“You lucky bastard,” Paris said.
“I feel lousy about this,” Pucchi moaned. “First time I been out of the company for six years.”
“Aw jees, don’t feel bad. I’ll get Herman to save a ribbon for you.”
“Cut the clowning, Paris, do you think I want to stay behind? He glanced at the burned-out, empty hills and winced. “I hope the guys don’t think I’m chicken—it wasn’t my idea.”
“Tough break, Pucchi,” Paris said, slapping him on the back.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“Anything on that hellhole island?” he asked Seymour, pointing to the searing mass of land.
“A leprosy colony and a whore. Even got to have M.P.s to keep a line in order—that is if you don’t mind laying a whore fifty years old with three kids in bed with her. The place wouldn’t be so bad if someone planted a tree.”
Pucchi’s eyes filled with tears. He swung over the rail to the Jacob’s ladder. “Good luck, fellows,” he whispered and lowered to the waiting boat.
“Some guys don’t know when they’re well off,” Seymour spat. He was a sarcastic bastard. “Where’s quarters, Mac?”
It got